


lipstick on your collar

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Crossdressing, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's staring, he knows, because Matthew fidgets in his lace and ruffles, and oh, those heels look fit to cut through concrete if he stepped hard enough."</p>
            </blockquote>





	lipstick on your collar

It's one of those reoccurring days when he visits unheralded with primed red roses in hand that he's cut himself because he's sure the last bunch have gone grey and wilted by now. It's late in the day, but Matthew shouldn't mind, remembers his words when he slipped the key to his home in his coat pocket six months past on their half-year anniversary,  _You're always welcomed here on any day, at any hour._  Francis shifts on his feet, tucks his lose strands of hair behind his ear then he fishes the spare key from his pocket and invites himself in, let's the door shut behind him with a soft click and breathes  _welcome home_  with a soft sigh and gentle smile.  
  
With the sun just setting and everything is gold and orange, Francis takes a minute to stand and wonder why it's so dark and quiet. Shadows cast and the sun burns through the thin curtains draped across wide windows; it's the only light source, but he spots the vase of well-spent roses on the coffee table. “Mathieu?” he calls out to the dimness, and it's then that he hears soft sounds drifting to his ears. Music? It's distant and figures he must be in his bedroom. Francis decides to care for the roses first.  
  
With an air of familiarity, he leaves the lights off and lets the wisps of light to guide him through the sea of grey. He pulls the dying roses from their glass home and, never having the heart to toss them in the trash, he leaves them on the counter to be dealt with later. He fills the vase with fresh water and situates the roses to his liking. Francis recognizes the song that seeps through the house. It's old and familiar, like running into an outdated friendship or twirling to a tune with a girl too pretty in a Parisian boutique. It's the same song, he concludes, trailing back into the living room where he sets the vase of roses where he knows the sun strikes the table most.  
  
Matthew must have pulled out the record player and vinyls. He hears how the song skips a beat, and Édith Piaf's voice jumps along, voice mellowed with low volume. The door is cracked, so he knocks, "Mathieu?" Francis repeats, pushes the door open, and he's a little perplexed with what he sees. And suddenly he’s thrown into his mother’s boutique, and there’s a pretty face before him when Matthew turns. His eyes are wide as are Matthew’s, big and too blue lined with eyeliner that accentuates them. His lips are what catches his attention the most, full and stained with a deep red rouge, slightly parted in a silent gasp. He’s staring, he knows, because Matthew fidgets in his lace and ruffles, and  _oh_ , those heels look fit to cut through concrete if he stepped hard enough.  
  
Francis is the first to speak, a bit exasperatedly, “Excusez moi, mademoiselle, but you wouldn’t happen to have seen mon petit Mathieu around here, have you?” he enters the room with a flourish, a smile on his face. Matthew bows his head and hunches his shoulders in embarrassment, but quickly looks up when his hand is taken in, and Francis thinks his natural blush is better than the light pink already dusting his cheeks. He chuckles and presses a kiss to the blond’s knuckles.  
  
“What are you doing here? And so late?” Matthew finally finds his voice. It’s strained, and he’s probably still waiting for Francis’s reaction to all of this.  
  
“You look beautiful,” the Parisian says instead, and he means it. Of course, he knows Matthew is beautiful whatever he looks like, but he finds himself in a too big room with a girl and his lost confession again, but he doesn’t have to worry about his love slipping through his fingers this time.  _Amour du mois de mai_  still coos in the background.  
  
“This is okay then?” Matthew hesitates, but the warm squeeze of his hand is enough.  
  
Francis laughs a little, “Of course! Why ever would I care what you dress yourself in? Though, I’m a little curious,” he admits, and as if a weight has been lifted off of him, Matthew grins and relaxes a bit as he shifts over on the bench to give Francis some room.  
  
“My mother always wanted a daughter. She was fond of playing dress up with me when I was younger. I never minded,” he shrugs, “If it made her happy, then it made me happy. I guess the habit just stuck with me,” he turns to face the vanity mirror, Francis following suit. There’s a tube of lipstick uncapped and waiting, and he holds it with such poise, Matthew does, as he applies more to his already smooth lips. He rubs them together, leans a little forward into the mirror and wipes a smudge away. “Besides,” he starts again, “I sort of like feeling pretty,” he practically sighs his contentment, and Francis finds it oddly tantalizing like everything Matthew does.  
  
“I can relate,” the Parisian hums out as he sifts through the various hues of lipsticks. He has quite a few; Francis wonders how he’s never figured this out before.  
  
“How so?” his eyes hold general curiosity when he looks at Francis through the mirror.  
  
“I’ve told you the story before,” he reminds, but it’s been a while so he understands, “When my mother owned the boutique in Paris. And Jeane. She always made me wear the dresses in the shop with her,” Francis picks up a tube randomly and reads the label. Crystal Rose. Francis turns it in his hand.  
  
“I forgot all about that,” he hears Matthew mumble, capping his lipstick and turning to look at his boyfriend once again. Francis marvels at his work, and believes he can put most girls to shame. Everything is perfect and even, a nice balance of colors, and if he didn’t know any better, Matthew could pass easily as a young woman. Matthew’s eyes drift to the lipstick held in Francis’s hand and takes it in his own, “Can I?” he asks lowly, brightens when Francis nods after a moment of thought, and scoots closer with a gleam in his eye.  
  
Matthew tilts his chin up with a gentle nudge and gives the slightest brush of his thumb below his low lip. Francis watches, fascinated by his steadied concentration. The way his brow furrows somewhat when he presses the stick to his bottom lip or the way his lip trembles with held breath—as if breathing would break his concentration—it amuses him. Matthew daubs with slow strong strokes to his bottom lip until he leans back and tells him to rub them together. Francis does so, and finishes with an obnoxious smack of his lips, that of which earns him an eye roll and gets Matthew shaking his head. The younger blond takes his chin between his fingers again to add a bit more, and then asks him to repeat the action again before he runs his thumb along the edges. He retracts his hand slowly giving Francis a chance to look at himself in the mirror.  
  
“It’s a nice color on you,” Matthew insists when Francis raises a blond brow and rubs his lips together slowly. It’s shades pinker than Matthew’s, and a few hues lighter.  
  
“Is it?” Francis mutters and makes a kissy face at the mirror much to Matthew’s amusement.  
  
“Oui,” Matthew chortles, snares Francis by the chin once more and leans in.  
  
The first kiss is tentative. Their lips mold and cling, glued together with a weak adhesive. They stick when Matthew pulls away, and it’s an odd sensation. Francis closes the little gap again, kisses him languidly, and likes the velvety slide of their lips as colors mix. There is no rush, just soft sighs and fleeting touches, but they find their way to the bed where it’s most comfortable. Matthew straddles his hips, and Francis trails a hand up a patch of bare skin at his thighs, runs a finger under the garter that’s pulled tight. Matthew lies flushed against the other, tangles fingers through his hair and kisses him thoroughly until he’s well disheveled and breathless, and there are smudges along his mouth. Matthew commits it to memory, caresses a cheek as Francis stares through clouded vision, lungs rattling with needed breath.  
  
“You look beautiful,” Matthew is the one to say this time against parted lips. He kisses the corner of his mouth, trails his jaw, nips at his neck, stains him with red and enjoys the way Francis breathes an airy sound. There are lipstick marks littering the right side of his face and neck, and although he’s sure there are long lasting love bites amongst the splatter, he likes the picture he’s painted which is just as well.

**Author's Note:**

> this was a request from a friend of mine. men in lipstick and hot makes outs.


End file.
